Quand J'etais Jeune
by jalf1018
Summary: A glimpse into Ellen's youth. The title translates to "When I Was Young." *One Shot*


_I have been a huge fan of __**Gone with the Wind**__ ever since I first read the book in high school and a fan of the fan fiction community for nearly a year now. I have such a deep respect the writing I see here, that I will admit I've been a bit intimidated to post. I hope you all enjoy my first venture into the community. Kindly leave a review if you enjoy the story or even if you don't enjoy it. It will help me , Jen.  
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_*Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story. They are a result of the genius that was Margaret Mitchell's mind.*_

**Quand J'etais Jeune**

_**July 10, 1863**_

Ellen Robillard O'Hara had been sitting in her office going over the account books. She glanced out the window towards the open vistas of the gently rolling hills of Tara. The long orderly rows of cotton matched those in the ledger. Since the war had started as the money in the ledger grew less and less so had the amount of cotton planted. She had convinced Mr. O'Hara of the wisdom in growing more useful crops such as corn and sweet potatoes. Where the money for next year's seed would come from she hadn't a clue. Since the war had started the blockade made the countless white bales next to useless. It took one bale to clothe the people of Tara and of course the Confederacy took their share to support the noble Cause, but those that remained simply sat in the barn.

Mammy interrupted Ellen's thoughts. "Miz Ellen, Miz Tarleton is here in the parlor. She's a sitting wit Miz Carreen."

"Thank you Mammy. Please tell her I'll be down in a moment." Ellen finished her task and quietly left the room. There was always refreshing to visit with her neighbors. They were far from those whom she had left in Savannah. They had a vitality that was lacking on the coast. Perhaps Beatrice would have a letter from Brent. That would certainly make Carreen happy. It had been several weeks since she had last had word from him. War certainly made the mail slow. Ellen noticed as soon as she walked in that her daughter's face with pale white. Gracefully walking over to the settee, she sat next to her. "Beatrice, how are you today?"

Mrs. Tarleton stared at her for a moment until she realized that Ellen was uninformed. "I received a letter from Pennsylvania this morning."

"Oh" said Ellen. "Who do you know up north?"

"It was a letter from the twins' commander. "Beatrice swallowed a lump in her throat. "There was a battle in a little town called Gettysburg over a week ago. The boys were in it."

Carreen slowly spoke up as if each syllable was a knife going through her heart "Mother, they're dead. They're all gone."

She looked up to Beatrice with teary eyes. Ellen took her by the hand in gave it his gentle squeeze. She then turned her attention to her neighbor. "I am so sorry. I wish I could tell you I know how you feel but I can only imagine the pain you must be feeling. If it is any comfort, they died for cause we would all sacrifice everything for."

Beatrice stiffened at the clichéd sympathy, but she knew that Ellen was nothing but sincere. "Thank you Ellen. I'm afraid I can't stay any longer. I have to make the arrangements and see if I or Mr. Tarleton can go up to Pennsylvania to retrieve the bodies."

"Of course, If there is anything I, Mr. O'Hara, or the girls can do please don't hesitate to let us know," Ellen replied sweetly. In these rough times if neighbors couldn't stick together and help each other, surely they'd all be doomed. Beatrice walked out the door after a generic goodbye. With their guest gone, Carreen burst into tears. "Sweetheart, don't cry."

"But Mother how can I not?" she asked between sobs. "I'll never get married now. Not when Brent is gone. To marry someone else would be an insult to his memory. I loved him, I really did"

Ellen thought back to when she had lost her first love. "Dear, of course you will. I know how you feel right now, but it won't last. I promise you."

Carreen's tears stopped for a moment to look her mother in the eyes. "How could you understand?" she asked, more bitter than her sweet voice had ever been. Leaving only those words hanging in the air and Ellen alone in the parlor she stormed up the stairs and slammed the door to her room.

"But I do understand," Ellen replied to no one. Her mind drifted back to when she was girl, about the same age as Carreen was now, in Savannah. It was a time when she still believed in romantic, passionate love. It was a time when she still thought she could do more than become the mistress of a plantation. Yes, she loved Gerald, but never as deeply as she had loved the first time.

**February 14, 1844**

Dinner had ended but the dancing hadn't started yet at the annual St. Valentine's Day ball. The women who were the belles of Savannah were dressed in bright gowns and sparkling jewels that had been handed down through the generations. Of all the young ladies present, Ellen Robillard was perhaps the most admired, even if she wasn't the most beautiful one present. She was sitting a quiet corner with Philippe Robillard, her cousin and special beau. Society recognized in them the signs of young love, but ultimately deemed it would be a poor match. Philippe had a reputation of being "fast" in the ways that a gentleman could be. He had a tendency of stringing girls along up until the precipice of compromising their virtue. Ellen was falling harder than any of the other girls before her and though no one recognized, he was falling just as hard for her. "You look wondrous tonight, cherie," he lilted in a slightly French accent.

Ellen looked away for a moment and then looked back at him with playful eyes, "Philippe, you are simply too charming. You're going to break my poor little ole heart."

"Ah, but I don't say anything that I don't mean," he bantered back taking her by the hand. "One day Ellen, and one day soon, I'm going to marry you." Ellen smiled. Philippe was unlike any of the other men who she considered her beaus. He had a tendency to make her heart beat like the butterfly's wings she felt tickling her stomach.

"This is all so sudden, I don't know what to say," Ellen responded.

"I'll ask your father. I don't want to lose you," Philippe replied earnestly. He looked around for gossip mongers before continuing. "I love you, Ellen Robillard and I will until the day that I die."

Ellen took the simpering look off of her face to expose what she was truly feeling. "I love you too, Philippe."

"My family wants me to go to New Orleans to take care of some business. Promise me you won't marry another man while I'm gone," he replied.

She giggled, "Who would I marry? There's never really been anyone else but you."

"There's that Irishman who has been making eyes at you since he's come back to Savannah," he answered bitterly.

"Mr. O'Hara?" she questioned. "He's a kind gentleman, but I'll never feel the same way about him as I feel about you."

"Good," he said, kissing her hand. "I'll ask your father now." He left to go find Pierre Robillard, leaving Ellen sitting on the bench alone.

She was lost in the romantic thoughts of a fifteen year old girl when she was approached by Gerald O'Hara. "Good evening, Miss Robillard."

"Good evening, Mr. O'Hara," she smiled. "I trust you are enjoying St. Valentine's."

"I am, thank you," he answered in a fine brogue. This was the girl he could see becoming his wife. She had the grace and bearing that came only from generations of thoughtful breeding.

Ellen continued, "How is your plantation Mr. O'Hara?" Though her own father wasn't a planter, she had always been intrigued by the cotton business.

"Fine, Tara out did itself last year. I think we can do better this season," Gerald answered. "But you don't want to hear about."

Ellen gave a weak smile, "I do. I don't quite understand the ends and outs of business, but it fascinates me so." She was lying. She knew exactly what business entailed.

"Trust me, Miss Robillard, you don't want to hear about it," he responded. "May I have a dance later tonight?"

"Of course," she replied politely. She spotted Philippe by the punch, indicating her to join her. "Now if you would excuse me, Mr. O'Hara."

Gerald bowed out of the way. Ellen went to join Philippe. "A glass of punch for the trés belle Mademoiselle Ellen," he crooned as he handed her the cup.

"Merci, Philippe," she responded. "Did you talk to Père?" Philippe looked worried. "You clearly did. What did he say?"

"He said that we would talk when I return from New Orleans," he answered. "He didn't say no, cherie. There's still hope."

Ellen blinked away her tears. There were far too many people for her to say what she really wanted to say. She wanted to scream "_They're sending you there to keep you away from me," _but she ignored the thought. "Of course there is."

She would always remember that night. She danced until the soles of her dancing slippers were nearly worn through. She remembered the bright peacock gowns of the young belles. That night the Committee had out done themselves with the dinner. It was also the last night that she would see Philippe, though she hadn't known it at the time.

He left the next morning to go to New Orleans. Two months later was another day that she would never forget. Gerald O'Hara had made yet another call and she had visited with him for a long while. He had asked her to marry him. Her response was the polite "This is all so sudden. I'm not unaware of the honor but I'll have to think about it." Shortly afterwards he had left with plans to return tomorrow.

Later when the sun was sitting low in the sky and she was sitting in the parlor, stitching another piece for her trousseau Mammy had walked in with a letter. "Miz Ellen, I gots a letter for you from New Awlins. It might be from Fee-leep."

"Thank you Mammy," Ellen responded, smiling. As she opened the envelope, she noticed her name had been smudged by dozens of fingers. It must have been difficult for Philippe to get a letter to her. Her smile faded as she unfolded the letter and noticed that the hand writing was unfamiliar. As she started to read the letter her heart fell to her stomach.

_Dear Miss Robillard,_

_I regret to be the one to have to put these words to paper. Philippe Robillard died of a fall from his horse. He was brought to me off the streets to nurse to health, but his injuries were too severe. I was introduced to your cousin when he started attending my parish for Sunday mass. He spoke highly of you and expressed his desire to bring you back to New Orleans one day as his wife. His last request was for me to write this letter to you to assure you of his love. I have enclosed the letters you wrote him, which he carried with him always._

_Respectfully,_

_Father St. Pierre_

"Lamb," Mammy half asked as she noticed Ellen's blanched expression.

"Philippe's not coming back," Ellen spoke slowly feeling faint. Slowly everything went black around her. The next thing she knew it was several hours later and she was laying in her own bed with Mammy hovering over her.

"You cain't worry ol' Mammy like that," she began. "Whut did that letter say."

Ellen looked at Mammy as she remembered. "Philippe's dead, Mammy. That letter was from a priest in New Orleans to inform me." Mammy gave her a sympathizing look, unsure of what to say. "I can't stay here."

"Where do you think you'll go?" Mammy asked incredulously.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Ellen admitted. "I just know that I can't stay here. It's their fault he's dead. He would have never gone to New Orleans if they just would have let us be happy. I need to find some way to leave Savannah forever."

"Now how do you 'spect to do that?" Mammy questioned.

"I don't know. It's not fair," Ellen started weeping against Mammy's shoulder. For hours she cried and thought about how to escape her hopeless situation; every now and then repeating the unfairness of it all. As dawn rose her sobs subsided and she made her decision. She had two outs. It wasn't all hopeless. "Mammy, would you see what time my father will be having breakfast?"

Mammy was surprised at how calm her mistress had become but went downstairs to get an answer of eight a.m. "Mista Robillard is going to be having breakfast at 8."

"Get me my light blue dress, please, Mammy," thinking about the one that made her look the most womanly. It looked like something a young wife would wear. At five minutes to eight, she was ready and descended the stairs to join her father in the dining room.

"Bon matin Ellen," Pierre told her.

"Good morning Père," she responded. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine," he grumbled. Ellen thought of the best way to approach the subject of her dilemma, but her father unintentionally beat her to the punch. "Louis Robillard called last night after you went to bed. Apparently Philippe was drunk and fell from his horse."

"I'm aware," she replied coldly.

He nodded his head, "Bon. I wasn't looking forward to being the one to tell you." Ellen shot him a look of death but it didn't register in the older man's French sensibilities. "Ma fille, you avoided a miserable marriage. He wouldn't have cared for you the way you deserve."

"That's what you think," she muttered under her breath. Who was he to tell her what wouldn't make her happy. "I loved him Père and he loved me despite what you think."

"You're young, what could you know about love," he snorted.

She felt her eyes welling with tears, but blinked them away. She was getting distracted. "I can't pretend everything is all right," she began. "I need to leave Savannah."

"You can go visit your sisters in Charleston," he offered.

She shook her head, "That's not what I meant. I will do one of two things. I will either go to Charleston to join the sisters at the convent or I will marry Mr. O'Hara."

"Out of the question," he snapped. "You are my daughter and neither are suitable options."

Her eyes took an expression that would only appear once in her lifetime. It was one of almost feline fury, though her voice and other features remained calm. "Those are the only options."

Pierre thought for a moment. Gerald O'Hara was a fine man, but not one he could see for his family. O'Hara hadn't even been out of the bogs of Ireland for twenty years. However, he couldn't allow his daughter, the most desirable of them all, to enter a convent. His own Huguenot leanings wouldn't allow him to grant his daughter that permission. "Fine, if you must, marry that bogtrotter but you won't be happy."

Ellen got up from the table to leave, "I don't expect to be happy; not anymore."

That afternoon when Gerald visited she spoke the momentous words, "Yes, Mr. O'Hara I will marry you." All the while she couldn't believe how her life had turned into this. She waited a decorous but fast year before becoming Ellen O'Hara and moving to upland Georgia. Years later, she would wish she hadn't been so rash. She had been young and beautiful. Who could tell what would have happened had she not decided out of grief?

She was brought back to the problems of 1863. She knew what her daughter was going through. Poor Carreen had just had her heart smashed. However, Ellen also knew that no words that she said to the contrary would make Carreen see that she wasn't the first to have their love taken from them unfairly. But Ellen knew that Carreen would love again another day, if not her husband then her children. She left the room to do what she could to comfort her daughter.


End file.
